An Unlikely Association
by Alchemine
Summary: Constance Hardbroom had never meant to become friends with the caretaker. Yet here she was, heading down the castle's back stairs in the dark for her daily chat with Frank Blossom. (CITV 1998 version)
1. Chapter 1

_I wrote this a long time ago as a sort of sequel to my other WW story (How Does Your Garden Grow) but never thought I would post it. But, I was going through some old files on my laptop and thought "why not?" so here it is._

* * *

Constance Hardbroom had never meant to become friends with the caretaker.

In fact, as a rule, Constance did not approve of becoming friends with anyone. Experience had taught her that the initial pleasure of companionship was always outweighed by the inevitable disappointment of betrayal, and so she did her work, interacted with her colleagues when she had to (curse the headmistress and her insistence on "bonding" over cake at every opportunity) and kept herself to herself when she didn't. It was completely uncharacteristic of her to have a friend—certainly not a friend of the generally arrogant, untrustworthy and deceitful male species. Yet here she was, heading down the castle's back stairs in the dark for her daily chat with Frank Blossom.

The ritual had begun by accident really. It was summer, and everyone else had gone away, but Constance had stayed to work out some new potions in peace, and Mr Blossom, who lived just down the hill in the village, was there to keep an eye on the castle and mend things that wanted mending. In the first week, they had only crossed paths once, in the greenhouse, and she had thought perhaps that would be all until the girls returned in September. But she slept as little as possible, and Mr Blossom was up before the larks, and before long those wildly disparate habits had brought them both to the kitchen in the pre-dawn darkness, wanting a cup of tea.

Constance had meant to take her cup and go back to her own room, where her books and notes and cat awaited her, but Mr Blossom had looked so eager and hopeful at the prospect of companionship—like a big, friendly retriever anticipating a treat—that even she, who often missed the social cues other people read so easily, realised it would be unkind and impolite just to leave. So she had sat down across from him at the battered wooden table where Mrs Tapioca chopped and kneaded things, and the next thing she had known, the sky outside the narrow, barred windows had turned a pale grey with the oncoming dawn, and she'd been overwhelmed with a wave of drowsiness that not even a Wide-Awake potion could combat.

She'd bid him good day then, and gone up to bed feeling that Miss Cackle and Miss Drill would have been proud—weren't they always telling her to _make more of an effort_ and _give people a chance, Constance_? And when she'd come down for her tea again the following morning, she'd been surprised, but not wholly displeased, to find him there ahead of her, and the kettle already on.

After that it became a habit, meeting in the warm kitchen at those small, dark hours. Mr Blossom was easy company ( _for a man_ , she mentally added). He didn't demand anything of her and would cheerfully keep up his side of the conversation even when she ran out of things to say, and bit by bit, she found herself both more willing and more able to talk. She'd always thought of him as an amiable idiot, but upon closer inspection, she discovered that despite his love of ridiculous inventions, he wasn't stupid in the least. He knew a great deal about plants as well, which was an endlessly fascinating subject to her, and they had had many discussions about the best way to grow this or that. She had been wondering if she should present him with a few cuttings from her herbs—the more ordinary ones, of course; he might have a green thumb, but there wasn't a drop of magic in him—to see what he could do with them. Perhaps he would surprise her. It wouldn't be the first time.

Pondering that, Constance rounded the corner at the last landing and emerged in the kitchen, only to find that it was empty, the fire banked, a single cup rinsed and sitting on the draining board. She frowned; was she later than usual? No, the cuckoo clock on the wall (enchanted by some distant Cackle ancestor so that the cuckoo screamed out the hour at the top of its nonexistent lungs) said thirteen minutes to five. It was the right time, and she was in the right place, but the other actor in the play had missed his cue.

Constance did not like having her routine disrupted, and this unforeseen development upset her. She brooded about it while she made her tea and added the tiny splash of milk that she allowed herself. It was very rude, she thought, to lead a person to expect you to be somewhere, and then not to be there. All right, they hadn't had an official appointment, but a precedent had been set, and he had no right to change it without alerting her. As she thumped the milk jug down on its chilled stone shelf, the cuckoo burst out behind her with a shriek of "IT'S FIIIIIIIIVE O'CLOCK!"

"I _know_ ," Constance snapped, and stomped back up to her room, where she swept all the books to one side of her bed and lay down fully clothed for a few hours of thin, restless sleep, interrupted several times by a recurring dream in which Mildred Hubble burnt down the school. She woke up sometime toward midmorning, with a dry mouth and a banging headache, and flung open the shutters on her window to discover Mr Blossom himself out in the courtyard, aggressively pruning an ornamental shrub in a planter. Under normal circumstances, she would have shouted for him not to use the shears so _loudly_ , for pity's sake, but at the moment even the idea of raising her voice made her temples throb. Instead, she eased the shutters closed again, drank a vial of painkilling potion and sat down for her daily diary-writing session. Just because _some_ people couldn't keep to a timetable didn't mean she had to let things slide, she thought crossly, dipping her pen.

 _ **19 August**_

 _Mr B missing from kitchen this morning for no good reason that I can determine. It is not that I wish illness upon him, but at least it would be some sort of excuse. I shall ask him tomorrow where he was. Fine weather, but looks as if it may rain later. Could divert the storm around the castle, but to what purpose? Thunder and lightning would suit my mood._

 _ **20 August**_

 _Wretchedly cold with torrents of rain. Thought of lighting the fire in my study, but refused on principle; must not give in to weakness even when the girls are not around to see. Mr B nowhere to be found again this morning; thought he had not come up to the castle at all until I saw him in the distance, touching up the paint on one of the sheds. He nodded to me but did not say anything. Still have headache._

 _ **21 August**_

 _Raining again. Gave in and lit the fire because Morgana was shivering. The potion I have been brewing for the last three days burnt and stuck to the bottom of the cauldron, and now I shall have to start all over. Took a book down to the kitchen at four this morning and stayed until six, thinking I might catch Mr B sneaking in for his tea, but nothing. I really think he is avoiding me. Why would he do that? I wish Amelia were here to tell me. She is much better at this friendship business than I am. But then, so is everyone._

 _ **22 August**_

 _Really, this is nonsensical. If he is going to creep about the way the girls do when they're up to something, I shall just treat him as I do them._

"Ahh! Miss Hardbroom, you gave me a start." Mr Blossom had been using a long-handled ladle to stir a simmering pot over the kitchen fire, and when Constance had materialised, he'd thrust it out in front of him as if to defend himself. Now he lowered it again, but held it ready as if he didn't like the look on her face—which, Constance thought, was probably good judgment on his part. She'd planned out several things to say when she confronted him, but now that they were face to face, she found none of them seemed quite right.

"Where have you been?" she asked at last.

"Oh, here and there, around and about," he said. "I hope you've been keeping well. Can I offer you some porridge?"

"No thank you," said Constance, who never ate before noon unless Amelia forced her to.

Mr Blossom turned away to stir the pot again, and she frowned at the back of his old grey jumper—there was a hole at one elbow, disgraceful—and wished she could see his face. She was generally hopeless at reading other people's emotions, but at least it might help her guess what he was thinking. He was as polite and good-humoured as ever, at least superficially, but there seemed to be an immense distance between them, as if this summer had never happened and they were meeting here in the kitchen for the first time. It made her feel not only awkward, but suddenly, powerfully lonely—a feeling that was both unaccustomed and unwelcome.

She cleared her throat. "Perhaps I should have made myself more plain. I was wondering not only where you have been, but also why you have not been here. I had…grown used to it."

Instead of replying, Mr Blossom tasted the porridge, whacked the ladle on the edge of the pot to knock off the thick bits that clung to it, then moved the whole pot away from the fire and scooped out a bowl full.

"Sure you won't have any?"

"Quite sure," said Constance. She poured herself a cup of tea, skipping the milk, and sat down in her usual chair while he added honey to his concoction.

"You haven't answered my question," she said.

"It isn't a question I can answer, miss." He hesitated, then sat down opposite her. "If I tell the truth you'll be cross with me, and if I don't, well, then I'll be lying, won't I? Either way I lose, so if you don't mind, I'll just keep quiet and eat my breakfast."

Constance drank some tea to hide her reaction to this statement. When she thought she was composed enough, she said, "Honesty is a virtue, Mr Blossom. I can't promise I'll like the truth, but I'll respect you for telling it."

Mr Blossom sighed and let his spoon fall into the porridge bowl. "Alright, it's like this. I've been enjoying these talks of ours, here in the kitchen every morning."

"So have I."

"Yes, but I've been enjoying them a bit too much, if you catch my drift. Looking forward to them all day, thinking about them after, wishing they'd last longer. What I mean to say is, I've been having feelings about you that I ought not be having, Miss Hardbroom, and it can't lead to anything but unhappiness, because you're who you are and I'm who I am, and never the twain shall meet. And now you're probably going to change me into a newt, but you asked, and there it is."

"I certainly will not change you into a newt," said Constance. "It would be against the Witches' Code."

"Well, that's a relief," said Mr Blossom, and ate a spoonful of porridge. "But it doesn't exactly touch on the rest of what I said, does it?"

"No, I suppose it doesn't," said Constance. She fiddled with her teacup, wishing that she were somewhere else. "Perhaps that bit doesn't really matter. We can pretend you didn't say it and go on as we have been—"

"We can't, though, because that isn't all there is to it." Now he was looking at her in a way that made her dreadfully uncomfortable—too warm and a little fidgety. "I don't want you to get upset, because I'd never, ever do anything about it unless you said it was all right."

"Do anything about what?" Constance asked faintly.

Mr Blossom coughed. "Well … there's a sort of physical side to these things too—no, don't, wait!" he said, as she overturned the cup and leapt to her feet, ready to vanish. "I swore I wouldn't do anything, and I won't. You'd blast me into the middle of next week if I tried, anyway. I'm only saying that I—I think you're beautiful, that's all. I can't help thinking it, or wanting to kiss you and—all the rest of it."

"All the rest of…" Constance's eyes widened as she took in what he must mean by that. "No! Absolutely not, Mr Blossom, that is completely out of the question. In fact, the entire idea is absurd. Just because we have been talking as friends, to suppose that I would entertain the thought of some sort of an, an intimate relationship is an outrage."

"I know it is," Mr Blossom said, patient as ever. "I didn't expect you to entertain the thought. I wasn't planning ever to say anything at all, just to stop coming round, but you would ask. Didn't your mum teach you not to ask questions that you don't want to know the answer to? Mine did."

"Well, I wasn't expecting the answer to be _that_ ," Constance snapped. "I thought you might tell me I'd offended you somehow. Heaven knows enough other people have done. I even meant to apologise for whatever it was, but this is simply beyond the pale." She felt something drip onto her shoe and looked down to see that the brown puddle of her spilt tea had reached the edge of the table and run off. "Oh, for goodness' sake!"

"Hang on, I'll mop it up for you—"

"Never mind!" Constance pointed and the puddle disappeared in a flash.

They both stood staring at the place where it had been for a moment, and then Mr Blossom said, "Can I ask you something, Miss Hardbroom? As a friend, if I still am your friend, or ever was."

"That depends," said Constance, folding her arms with fingers still in the spell-casting position, just in case. "Are you sure it's a question you want the answer to?"

Mr Blossom either missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. "Yes, actually," he said. "I was just wondering, have you ever cared about anyone at all? Like that, I mean."

No doubt it seemed like an innocent question to him, but for Constance it brought up years of unpleasant memories: being called a robot and a statue and an ice queen; being accused of having no feelings; being asked if she was going to marry one of her books, as she loved them more than people.

"If you must know, Frank Blossom," she said sharply, "all I care about in life is my work and my studies. And I can see I should have been devoting myself to them instead of wasting hours of my valuable time on useless chitchat with you."

She rarely regretted the things she said in anger until much later, if ever, but the hurt on his face—obvious even to her—made her instantly wish she could take the words back. Now she felt guilty as well as furious, and all at once she knew she was going to behave very badly. Mr Blossom seemed to realise it too. He reached out to touch her arm, as if hoping to placate her, but a crackling blue burst of magic arced between them, and he jerked his hand back, shaking it to counteract the sting.

"Constance!"

He'd never used her Christian name before, and hearing it shocked her out of her rage—only for an instant, but long enough for her to get control of herself.

"Leave me alone," she said through gritted teeth. "You wanted to stay out of the castle, so stay out of it—in the greenhouse, in the sheds, at the bottom of the cesspit, I don't care where. I don't wish to see you or speak to you again until the new term starts. Is that understood?"

"Yes, miss."

"Good," Constance said, and transported herself directly to her room. She arrived there shaking with indignation and embarrassment and at least half a dozen other emotions she couldn't name. What was the matter with the man, anyway? Why did he have to spoil a perfectly good friendship by having these feelings she didn't want? Why couldn't he just have enjoyed it as it was? She wanted to scream and slam doors and smash things, but she knew it would do no good. Morgana came padding over to rub against her legs, and bending down, she gathered the cat into her arms and buried her nose in its neck, breathing in the scent of clean, healthy animal.

"I should have known better, Morgana," she said, and sighed.

 _ **1 September**_

 _Amelia came back yesterday. I did not see her until this morning, when she called me to a meeting in her office. The first thing she said was that Mr B has resigned. He has found a position at a horticultural college, and his brother will be taking over his work here. Amelia was upset and asked if B had said anything to me about planning to leave; told her quite truthfully that we have not exchanged a word in nearly a fortnight._

 _It is for the best, of course. How could we have behaved normally around each other after that? But I do miss those early-morning talks, and...he was not wrong when he said I was the one who insisted on knowing the reason for his absence. I shall apologise for that if I ever see him again, although I don't know if I ever shall._

 _I do know one thing though, and that is that I will never try to have another friend again. It is much too complicated._

 _I am better off as I am._


	2. Chapter 2

"Constance, can I have a word?"

Amelia Cackle had opened her office door just as Miss Hardbroom passed by. Her timing was so precise that an observer might have thought she'd used magic to accomplish it, and that observer would have been correct, as Amelia had been watching her deputy's approach along the corridor through two feet of solid stone wall. She slipped one hand deftly through the crook of Constance's elbow and diverted her into the office before the other woman had a chance to protest or pull away.

"Headmistress, this really isn't the most convenient time. I have marking still to do, and I meant at least to look in on the first-years before going to bed. You know it always takes a few weeks to impress upon them that lights-out means lights _out_." Constance sat down in the chair opposite Miss Cackle's desk, looking put out. "I'm sure whatever you want to ask me can wait until morning, can't it?"

"It could," Amelia said as she closed the door and took her own seat, "but I don't believe it should."

"Oh, very well. What is it?"

Amelia steepled her fingers under her chin and regarded Constance across the drift of books and papers that was already beginning to form on the surface of her desk, in defiance of all her good resolutions about starting the new term off on the right foot. At a glance, Constance was the same as always: black dress from neck to ankles, hair tortured into place, spine as straight as a steel rod. But though Amelia might be useless at maintaining a tidy office, she had a keen eye for anything amiss with the people she cared for, and she could see the marks of exhaustion and upset in the dark circles under Constance's eyes and the fine lines of strain around her mouth. On her face was the haughty, closed-off expression she often wore, which made Amelia long either to shake her or hug her, depending on the circumstances.

She decided to take an abrupt tack in hopes of catching Constance off guard.

"Constance, did something happen over the summer that you want to tell me about?"

"No, Headmistress."

Knowing Constance as she did, Amelia thought it best to parse that answer out. "Do you mean 'No, Headmistress, nothing happened,' or 'No, Headmistress, I don't want to tell you about it?'"

Constance was capable of lying by omission, but when asked a direct question, she was honest to a fault. "No, Headmistress, I don't want to tell you about it."

 _So we'll be doing this the hard way_ , Amelia thought. _All right, then_. She waited a moment to see if Constance would break, but nothing happened. One of Constance's boots tapped out an impatient beat on the faded red-and-gold Aubusson rug. An owl hooted in the autumn dark outside the open casement window. From far away, they both heard the muffled sounds of the girls laughing and chattering and running back and forth to the bathrooms as they got ready for bed.

"Well, I want you to, so out with it," said Amelia at last. "I can see it's troubling you."

"It isn't."

"It is. You've looked miserable ever since I came back last week. It can't be overwork because the term has barely started, so it must be something that happened while we were all away." She narrowed her eyes at Constance over the tops of her spectacles. "Has it got something to do with whatever made Frank Blossom leave so abruptly? Because I must tell you, Constance, that came as a great surprise to me. When I last spoke to Frank just before school broke up for the summer, he told me how much he loved his work here, and that he meant to stay on until he was old enough to collect pension. Now he's gone with only a letter of resignation on my desk to explain himself. Why?"

"He didn't consult me regarding the decision, Headmistress. I knew nothing about it until you told me. As I believe I've already said, we hadn't interacted at all for quite some time before your return."

"What about before that?"

"What about it?" Constance's face didn't change, but Amelia saw her hands twist together in her lap.

"Stop trying to evade the subject, Constance. Did you or did you not have any contact with Frank during the first month of holidays? " She decided to take a wild guess. "Did he hurt you somehow?"

"No!" Constance looked genuinely shocked at that. "Of course not. He wouldn't. Just because he…" She trailed off, clearly feeling she'd said too much, and Amelia pounced.

"Just because he what?"

Tears welled up in Constance's eyes, but Amelia knew from experience that they would most likely go unshed. She had only seen Constance really cry once in all the time they had known each other, a stubborn refusal she had not understood until meeting the horrid Mistress Broomhead and seeing how she dealt with pupils who dared to show weakness in her presence.

"Must I, Headmistress?"

"Yes," said Amelia, as firmly and as kindly as possible. "You'll feel better when you've told me."

"I doubt it," Constance said. "But since you insist, Mr Blossom and I struck up something of a—a friendship, earlier in the summer. Yes, I know," she said, seeing Amelia's raised eyebrows. "It surprised me as well. We would meet in the kitchen for tea every morning and talk, sometimes for an hour or even two. It was quite pleasant and I enjoyed it very much until he suddenly stopped turning up. I demanded that he tell me why, which in retrospect I should not have done. I suppose it's only fair that you're now doing the same to me." She sighed. "Anyway, under duress he told me that he had…developed feelings toward me."

"Romantic feelings?"

Constance nodded. "Why must men always ruin everything by doing that sort of thing? I don't understand it at all."

Amelia, who had sometimes pondered the same question in her younger days, could only shrug by way of commiseration.

"Go on," she said.

"Well, I was upset, because it had all been going so well and now it wasn't, and I said things that I realised even at the time were unkind. I told him to stay away from me, which he did, and it seems that on his own he took the decision to stay even further away by going to work somewhere else. I admit when you first told me he had gone I was relieved, because it meant I wouldn't have to see him around the school and feel awkward, but at the same time I knew he had been upset too, and it was my fault."

"Your fault? Constance, you weren't required to accept advances..."

"He didn't _make_ any advances," Constance said irritably. "He tried to spare me the embarrassment, even if he was clumsy about it. I don't suppose he wanted to have those feelings any more than I wanted him to have them, but I would insist on being told, because I was angry about being ignored. It was pride and arrogance on my part. Oh, don't look at me that way, I'm not as devoid of self-awareness as you and everyone else seem to think. I know very well what my faults are."

Amelia stared at her deputy in amazement. Above their heads, a door slammed and one of the girls shrieked. Constance cast her gaze heavenward as if praying for patience, but stayed in her chair.

"I really must go soon, Headmistress. They'll be trying to raise the dead or open a portal into the heart of the sun next. Remember what happened with the fourth years the second winter I taught here?"

Amelia shivered, remembering it. "In a moment. Tell me, Constance, has it not occurred to you that you don't have to leave things as they are? I don't know whether your friendship with Frank can be salvaged, but you can at least make amends for whatever part you feel you played in its demise."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, go see him and say sorry," Amelia said. "He lives in the village, not on the moon."

Constance pulled a face. "I had considered that, Headmistress, but on second thoughts I don't think it would be best. The last time we spoke, I not only told him that I didn't want to see him again, I got so agitated that, er, there was an accidental Tesla discharge involved."

"Oh dear," Amelia said. It was rare for a witch of Constance's age and skill to lose control of her magic to that point, but it did happen. "He wasn't injured, was he?"

"No, only startled," Constance said. "I think. I didn't exactly hang about to see."

"Ah, well, what's a bit of electrocution between friends?" Amelia said. She was hoping to coax just the a hint of a smile out of Constance-a delicate task, but not an impossible one-but was disappointed. On impulse, she got up, took the chair beside Constance's, and reached toward her, but before she had even come close to touching her, saw the familiar stiffening and withdrawal.

"I have known you for fifteen years, Constance," she said gently. "I am as fond of you as of a daughter. Won't you let me embrace you just once?"

Constance looked horrified, and Amelia was certain she would say no, or perhaps vanish. But then, to her surprise, Constance edged nearer and leant over so her head rested on Amelia's shoulder. Astonished and pleased, Amelia enfolded her and drew her even closer.

"I know you think you haven't any other friends, Constance, but you do, whether you want us or not."

Constance gave a very small sniff against Amelia's generous front.

"I never meant to –" she began.

"Shush. I know." Amelia raised a hand to smooth back the fine wisps of dark hair that were beginning to escape around Constance's temples. She waited, and after a while, Constance's whole body began to shake with the dreadful silent weeping that Amelia remembered so vividly from years before. What sort of punishments could train someone to cry that way, she wondered, and decided perhaps it was better to let Constance keep some secrets for herself.

"I love you, Constance," she said. "You may always rely upon that."


	3. Chapter 3

Frank had been at home for two days with a ghastly flu, coughing like a dying cat and alternately freezing and burning up. When the knock at his door came, he was in one of the freezing phases, bundled in layers of clothes and blankets, and it was with great reluctance that he got up and shuffled through the chilly sitting room to answer.

He opened the door, and the bottom seemed to drop right out of his stomach. It must be a fever-induced hallucination, he thought, because surely there could be no other explanation for Constance Hardbroom standing on his doorstep at half past eight on a wet Friday night, all in black velvet, with her travelling cloak clasped round her neck and her very chilliest expression on. A fine, misty rain was falling, and the droplets caught on her hood sparkled in the overhead light. He blinked, and blinked again, but she was still there, as splendid and terrifying as ever.

"Hello, Mr Blossom," she said.

Frank glanced down at himself and realised how ridiculous his own outfit of tartan pyjama trousers, old blue fisherman's jumper, mismatched socks, slippers and woolly scarf looked. He was fairly sure that his remaining hair was standing up around his bald spot, too, as it often did. Probably, he thought, he would perish of embarrassment if the flu didn't get him first.

"Hello, Miss Hardbroom," he said. "Erm … why are you here?"

Six months ago, he would not have recognised the look that fluttered across Constance's face as panic, but he knew her better now. She got it under control quickly and said "To talk to you, of course. Perhaps I might come in?"

You didn't say no to Constance, as Frank knew to his detriment. As he stood aside and let her in, he was overcome by an uncontrollable coughing fit that made her click her tongue in either concern or disapproval.

"I didn't know you were ill," she said.

"Well, you wouldn't have, would you?" _Unless you'd phoned ahead to ask if it was a good time to come_ , he thought, but that was so out of character as to be ludicrous. There wasn't a phone up at the castle—when they needed to communicate with someone by non-magical means, they sent Miss Drill out to handle things—and even if there had been, he couldn't imagine Constance using it. She knew perfectly well how telephones and automobiles and electricity worked, and if she had been of a mind to, she could have blended into the ordinary world without a trace. She simply chose not to.

"No," Constance said. "Well, I won't stay long, then." She looked around, and Frank felt another wave of embarrassment. He kept the cottage tidy enough—with only him living in it, there wasn't much mess to be made—but he wasn't the best at dusting, and he hadn't aired out the sitting room or lit a fire there in at least a year. When he was at home, he spent most of his time in the kitchen, and that was where he escorted Constance, who had the good grace to seat herself at the table without complaining. He swept away some odds and ends of scrap wood and wire that he had been messing about with before he went down with the plague, and she folded her hands primly on the flowered oilcloth in front of her and sat there looking uncomfortable and out of place.

"You didn't _fly_ here, did you?" asked Frank, imagining himself trying to explain that one to the neighbours. It was going to be bad enough explaining why he had had Constance in at all, this time of night. Mrs Bradford across the way was probably glued to her window with a pair of binoculars even as they spoke, hoping for something scandalous to tell everyone at her bingo game tomorrow. Mrs Bradford would be disappointed, though, because even if by some miracle Constance had come here for that, he would have had to turn her down. He was too poorly for anything but a hot bath and a mustard plaster.

"Of course not," Constance said. "I walked. And if you're worried about people noticing, you needn't be. I've seen to that."

Frank wasn't certain whether that meant she had made herself invisible, or cast a mass amnesia spell on everyone down this end of the lane, and he thought it better not to ask. He sat down in another kitchen chair, hopefully far enough from Constance to avoid transmitting his germs to her, and said, "Well, I'm glad you're here, but I've got to tell you, I'm a bit confused. The last time we spoke, you were pretty certain you didn't want to see me anymore. Seems as if I remember you saying something about the bottom of the cesspit."

"Yes, I know." Constance's hands were clasped together so hard now that her knuckles were beginning to go white. "The last time we spoke is the reason I've come, Mr Blossom—"

"Don't you think we might be on a first-name basis by now? You did electrocute me, after all."

"That was an accident," Constance said hotly, and he saw on her face both that it truly had been, and that she was ashamed of it. "Will you just listen for a moment? I've come because I wish to apologise for that, and for the way I behaved toward you in general. I was upset and I said things I shouldn't have said. I didn't mean them really."

"Miss Hardbroom—"

"I haven't finished." Constance took a deep, steadying breath. "It wasn't your fault that you had different feelings than I did, and I was wrong to make you confess them and then blame you for having them. I don't share those feelings and I never will, but I am—I am—" She seemed to hunt desperately for the right word. "I am _fond_ of you, Mr Blossom. I loved our talks and I miss them dreadfully. Couldn't we be friends again?"

Frank was left completely at a loss for words by this. He had missed the talks too, and Constance herself, even in the midst of being hurt and angry about everything that had happened. He had tried to keep busy, working hard during the day and occupying himself with building and tinkering at night, but he had not been able to shake off the feeling that he had lost something very important and would never get it back. During his years at Cackle's, he had grown so accustomed to magic that he had taken it rather for granted, and it hadn't been until he was no longer around it every day that he realised how flat and humdrum everything was without it. Now Constance was here, filling his poky little kitchen to the brim with her magical aura and her formidable personality—two forces so intertwined that he could not tell where one ended and the other began—and he felt as if he had been given another chance. But...

"I don't work at the school anymore," he said.

"Miss Cackle will let you visit."

"How do you know?"

"I know," Constance said, "because I asked her, and she said that she would. The girls would be thrilled to see you too, I'm sure. Or I could come here. We _are_ allowed out of the castle from time to time."

Frank closed his eyes and rubbed both hands over his face, beginning to think that this really must be a fever dream of some kind, and that any minute now, he would awaken in his bed upstairs. But when he looked again, Constance was still there, still watching him and waiting for an answer.

"I never stopped being your friend," he said simply. "And it was my fault too. I didn't have to say how I felt just because you asked me. You don't control everything, you know."

"I beg your pardon, I most certainly do." Constance's voice was huffy, but he saw a quirk of humour round the corners of her lips and laughed out loud, then had to turn away and cough into his elbow.

"One thing about those feelings, though," he said when he got his breath. "They're still there, so if they get to be too much, you've got to promise you won't get cross if I stay away a while."

"I swear it on the crescent moon," Constance said promptly, holding up her right hand with the fingers curled into a complicated sign that Frank didn't understand at all, but which clearly meant something to her.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said. "Now I have a promise for you too. I won't pester you about how I feel, or ask you if you've changed your mind, or anything of the sort. Like you said before, we'll just pretend I never said anything at all. Shake." He put out his hand, and tentatively, Constance reached out and clasped it with her own. There was a faint, unmistakable tingle that reminded him a little of the magic that had nearly fried him the last time they touched, but it was more pleasant than painful. He gave her hand a warm, friendly squeeze and let it go, then stood up with a groan of effort.

"I don't like to turn you out, but I'm half dead of this bug, and it's coming on to rain hard again. You'll get drenched if you don't go now."

"That," said Constance, "is what waterproofing spells are for. But you do look as if you need some rest, so I'll be on my way. No need to see me to the door." She stood up as well, and for a moment he thought she had temporarily lost her mind and was going to hug him. Instead, she extended one hand, palm up, and with a flash, a small corked vial appeared there.

"One spoonful of this before you go to bed, and another when you wake up in the morning," she said. "If you're not completely well again by tomorrow evening, then one more, but I doubt you'll need it." She held out the vial, and he took it gratefully.

"Goodnight, Constance," he said. "Mind the bugs don't bite."

Constance smiled—a real, dazzling smile, the first one he'd ever seen from her—and he went as giddy as if she'd put a spell on him. He hoped it was just the flu.

"Goodnight, Frank," she said, and vanished.


End file.
